


Hardest of hearts

by ElixirBB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit of violence, Angst, Drama, F/M, Sebastian Moran Being Creepy, Smut, mentions of drug use, mentions of dubious things, mentions of violence against animals, there may be some triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock Holmes dies, he doesn’t intend to take Molly Hooper with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hardest of hearts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my lovelies! I feel like it’s been forever since I’ve written something. Mainly because of writer’s block and mainly because…well…mainly because of writer’s block. LOL. I’m dedicating this story to every single one of you amazing people who put up with my constant AN and tumblr whining. Seriously, what have I done to deserve you guys? You’re all amazing! Hope you enjoy and any and all mistakes are mine and mine alone! Oh and the title is taken from the Florence and the Machine song of the same name. Also: heed the warnings, just in case anything is a trigger.

When Sherlock Holmes dies, he doesn’t intend to take Molly Hooper with him.

 

The day of his funeral, Sherlock stays in the shadows of the trees and watches as Mrs. Hudson sobs, Lestrade stares sullenly at the tombstone and he watches, with a heavy heart, as John limps and stumbles, only to be caught and hauled up by Molly.

 

( _Molly_. _Molly Hooper_ who mourns with such palpable grief, he almost thinks she truly _believes_ he’s dead. Except that’s not the case, because Molly Hooper helped _kill_ him and for that, Sherlock Holmes will forever be grateful to her.)

 

After the funeral, Molly takes a cab back to her flat and Sherlock takes the time to walk around London in disguise. It isn’t until he makes his way back to Molly’s flat and sees a familiar sleek black car outside that he knows something is wrong.

 

He makes his way up the stairs and pushes open her flat door, only to be met with chaos. Chairs and tables are upturned and broken. Glass is shattered, cupboards opened with their contents smashed to the floor, her bedroom is in shambles, the mattress gutted, clothes strewn over the floor. And in between all of the mess, is _Molly_. Molly, who stands in the aftermath of her desecrated sanctuary, in her black mourning dress, hands clutching a piece of paper tightly.

 

Anthea is by the window, fingers typing words in her mobile rapidly, furiously, while her eyes flit around the neighborhood.

 

Mycroft’s eyes follow him as Sherlock makes his way towards Molly and as gently as he can muster, he pries the piece of paper from her hand.

 

The words on the paper make his blood run cold.

 

_All heart’s burn, don’t they Molly? Pity you weren’t home. We would have had so much fun, you and I. Until next time, SM._

 

“They killed Toby.” Molly says, her voice soft and mechanic, as if going through the motions. As if trying to make sure that she doesn’t completely _lose_ it. “He was the only friend I ever had.”

 

(For some reason, this statement makes Sherlock’s chest clench and it makes his entire body _hurt_.)

* * *

For the safety of the woman who helped kill him, he takes her with him.

 

Mycroft argues and tells him that she would be better off in one of his safe houses but Sherlock knows that the only safe place for Molly is with him.

 

(He ignores the surprised look on her face and he ignores the urge to smirk when two red blots appear on her cheeks.)

* * *

They stay within the United Kingdom first. Sherlock hunting down members of Moriarty’s network and effectively getting rid of them. He doesn’t feel bad about killing them. Some part of him says that he should, that killing comes too easily, too readily to him, but Sherlock ignores and deletes that part of him and focuses on the task at hand, because the sooner he gets rid of them, the sooner he can go home.

 

(The sooner Molly can go home.)

 

She doesn’t complain. She doesn’t question where they go or why they’re in a particular place. She follows him; she treads softly around him, as if worried that if she says something, he’ll snap.

 

The truth of that is he probably _would_ snap and he’s thankful that she _doesn’t_ say anything because he knows that when she does, _he’ll_ say something and it _won’t_ be nice. It never is nice when it comes to Molly.

 

(Her emotions are displayed prominently on her face. He always knows when she’s happy or sad or disappointed or frightened because she _shows_ it. She knows her emotions and she’s not afraid of them and he’s never met someone so in tune with oneself like she is.) 

 

He’s never known whether to praise her or berate her for it.

 

Because as far as he’s concerned, emotions are a vulnerability and vulnerability turns into liability.

 

(He doesn’t realize until it’s too late that Molly Hooper has become his vulnerability and by default, his liability.)

* * *

Molly is a pathologist (and in Sherlock’s opinion, the most competent pathologist he’s ever worked with) she is _not_ a surgeon. Besides rounds in A &E during medical school and her placements, Molly doesn’t work on live bodies.

 

This does not stop her from practically catapulting out of her spot on the couch, when he stumbles into their _borrowed_ flat, after a practically nasty fight with a man who died fighting until his very last breath.

 

Sherlock is bleeding profusely from the knife wound to his side and from the wound on his head and he knows that one of his ribs are cracked. He’s becoming dizzy and nauseous and before he knows it, Molly is there (Molly is _always_ there) holding him upright and dragging him to the couch. She sets him down gently and leaves his side.

 

She’s gone for mere seconds, grabbing whatever supplies she needs, but somehow, to Sherlock, it feels like she’s been gone for _hours_ (he doesn’t want to contemplate why the thought of Molly leaving him leaves him breathless with agony and fury.) She comes back with a bundle of medical supplies in her arms. She sets them down on the table and snaps on gloves with precision that he’s seen hundreds of times before in the morgue and in the lab.

 

She lifts her head and bites her lip. “It’s…it’s been a while since I’ve stitched up a live person. I don’t…Sherlock…this is going to hurt and I’m so sorry. I’m _so_ sorry.”

 

He doesn’t know why she’s apologizing to him. It’s not like _she’s_ the reason they’re in this mess. No, the onus is on Sherlock for this mess. For the mess that he’s created out of all of their lives.

 

He focuses on her face, scrunched up in concentration. She bites her lip when in deep concentration and she blinks rapidly, her breath is even and strong, despite the slight trembling of her hands.

 

(He slips into oblivion, with the sound of her mumbled apologies running rampantly through his mind.)

* * *

When he wakes up, it’s to the sun shining through the windows. He’s not on the couch anymore and instead is on an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. He blinks and sucks in a deep breath and feels pain when he tries to move.

 

Brown fills his vision. He blinks again and his eyes focus on worried brown eyes. Molly is kneeling on the bed next to him, hands pushing him gently back into his previous position. “You’ve been asleep for two days.” She tells him softly, settling into a more comfortable position on her knees and is careful to not jostle him. “I finished patching you up after you passed out and then I called Mycroft.” He opens his mouth to tell her that she _shouldn’t_ have called Mycroft, that he could have handled it and that he most certainly did _not_ pass out but she cuts him off, “you were _dying,_ Sherlock.” Her voice cracks and she wipes her eyes with the heel of her palm. “I...I killed and buried you once, I most certainly will not do it again…so yes, I _had_ to call Mycroft. This…this place…it’s…we’re in Switzerland.”

 

She lets out a sigh and carefully gets off the bed and wipes her hands on her trousers. “You need rest.” She gives him a tired smile and for once, Sherlock sees how exhausted she looks. She’s lost weight (four pounds), she has bags underneath her eyes, her hands are trembling, her eyes are shining with unshed tears and he knows that she’s struggling to hold on to some semblance of sanity.

 

She turns to leave when he calls out in a dry and crack voice, “stay.”

 

She turns her head and looks at him with a mixture of surprise and hesitance. “Molly, stay.”

 

She walks towards him, the hems of her trousers sliding against the hardwood floor and she lifts up the duvet and crawls underneath it. She leaves some room between them but her fingertips close the distance as she traces unknown shapes across the back of his hand. “Sherlock? Please…please don’t do that to me again.”

 

His eyelids are closing against his wishes but he thinks he manages an indiscernible nod.

 

(In his sleep, he dreams that Molly says _, “I love you too much to watch you die again.”_ But that’s just in his dreams.)

* * *

They stay in Switzerland longer than necessary.

 

Mycroft brings into custody five of Moriarty’s men. (Sherlock can’t help but think that he should have done the world a favor and just killed them all.)

 

Sherlock is also irritable at being inside all day and the only person in his vicinity to take his frustrations out on, is Molly.

 

And so, for all her help and for all her strength, he tears her down. He spews out venomous words that he won’t ever be able to take back with a simple apology and kiss on the cheek and he watches as her face falls, as her entire body deflates. He watches as her eyes widen and as her expression morphs into one of pure horror.

 

(Her emotions are displayed prominently and for some reason the look on her face, the look in her eyes, makes him want to vomit.)

 

“I…” her voice cracks and she sucks in a deep breath, “Back to normal, then? Good…good…that’s all…good.” She turns on her heels, hands clasped against her mouth to keep her sobs silent.

 

(It doesn’t work. He hears her as one is wrenched from her throat as the door to the room slams shut. His heart is beating fast and there is a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that tells him something has changed and he won’t ever be able to make it go back to how it used to be.)

* * *

He doesn’t see Molly for the rest of the day.

 

The next day, Anthea comes into the room. He knows it’s her from the sound of her heels and the sound of her typing a message rapidly. “Is there a reason why Doctor Hooper demanded to go back to London?”

 

The sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach comes back full force. He doesn’t say anything and with Anthea, he finds that he doesn’t have to.

 

“She’s been denied of course.” She continues, her voice low and airy, “On the pretense that it isn’t safe for her to return to London.” She doesn’t say anything else, just walks out of the room, her heels echoing down the hall.

 

(He doesn’t realize he’s clenching his fists until his nails break the skin on the palm of his hands.)

* * *

They leave Switzerland behind them and head to Russia.

 

Molly talks to him but not like before.

 

(When he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine the feel of her fingertips, as she traces unknown shapes on the back of his hand.)

* * *

They go through Russia, Poland and Germany with Molly giving him the semi-silent treatment.

 

She won’t meet his eyes and when she does, she quickly turns away, unwilling (unable) to look at him.

 

(It’s one of her smaller mercies, because he doesn’t think he can handle the hurt in her eyes anymore.)

* * *

They’re in Madrid when he kisses her.

 

He presses her against a brick wall, body pressed against hers, wrists over her head and held in place by one of his hands while the other wraps around her waist protectively. She moans into his mouth and kisses him back eagerly; tongue swiping against his lips and he instinctively thrusts his hips. He lets go of her wrists and pulls her flush against him, hand gripping her left leg and hitching it over his hip. Her hands play at the bottom of his dyed ginger hair as she continues to kiss him.

 

(She tastes like cherries and lemons and a hint of espresso that she drank earlier that morning. She tastes intoxicating.)

 

She pulls away from him and blushes when a group of children make obscene kissing noises and giggle at them. She buries her head into his neck and breathes deeply. “Sherlock?” Her voice is shaky.

 

“We were being followed.” He tells her.

 

She nods. “I know. I saw them after lunch.”

 

(He is both immensely surprised and proud.)

* * *

That night, after Moriarty’s henchmen are killed, he walks into the hotel room as Molly is walking out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel.

 

There is an awkward pause and Sherlock finds that he can’t look away and that he’s riveted by droplets of water that run from the top of her body to the bottom.

 

She takes a step towards him, one hand reaching out to touch the bruise forming on his chin. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

 

“No.” He closes his eyes as her fingertips graze his chin.

 

He thinks it’s the accumulation of years, (God, has it been years already?) adrenaline, Switzerland, that afternoon and _everything else_ , that makes him pull her to him and capture her lips once again.

 

She still tastes intoxicating and he finds himself fully ready and willing to get high off of her.

 

(She is becoming his drug of choice, a blissful injection that he welcomes readily.)

* * *

She is unabashed in her pleasure and he finds himself enthralled by the noises she makes. She gasps when he sucks and bites her nipples, pebbling them with his mouth. She moans into his mouth when he kisses her, tongue sweeping in and learning the contours of mouth. She whimpers when his fingers delve into her, thrusting in and out, her hips matching his pace. She keens when his mouth descends on her, wrapping her legs around his shoulders, hands pulling and tugging his hair as he brings her over the precipice of pleasure. 

 

She sobs with heightened senses when he enters her, his hands gripping her thighs as he thrusts deeper and harder. It’s rougher than he would have liked and he knows that he’s leaving bruises over her skin but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when she’s making those noises that encourage him to abandon all semblance of control and her pleas of _please, Sherlock, God, Sherlock, more_.

 

She shrieks his name when she orgasms and Sherlock has never heard a more beautiful sound than that.

 

(Gone is the pretense of who they’re supposed to be playing. Of all their previous false identities. All that’s left, all that matters is _Sherlock_ and _Molly_.)

* * *

In the morning, Molly climbs on top of him and he watches as she moves up and down, body rolling with pleasure. He grips her hips as he thrusts upwards and grabs her breasts, fingers rolling and pinching her nipples as she increases her speed until she collapses on top of him, breathing his name over and over again as if it’s some sort of prayer.

 

(He doesn’t believe in religion but he isn’t surprised to find that he would _worship_ her if she wanted him to.)

* * *

(Sex with Molly is not like sex with the other nameless women he’s long since deleted. It’s not even like sex with _The Woman_ , who wields sex like power. No, sex with Molly is something unnamable. It’s indefinable.)

* * *

It’s been almost three years since Sherlock threw himself off of Bart’s rooftop to save Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and John.

 

It’s been almost three years since he died and inadvertently took Molly Hooper with him.

 

Within those three years, Molly has never had to witness what he does. She’s never had to dirty her hands with someone else’s blood (his doesn’t count, his blood will never count.)

 

They’re in Ireland when he’s proven wrong.

 

He’s close to finishing this. Close to getting this all over with and going back home, when he realizes too late that he’s walked into an ambush.

 

Before he’s knocked unconsciousness, he sees a tall blonde man with green eyes and a manic grin. “Oh, Sherlock, where’s Doctor Hooper? I was looking _so_ forward to meeting her.” He kneels down and looks Sherlock in the eye, “no matter. I’ll find her. Tell me, does she moan as beautifully as I imagine she does? Jim painted such a beautiful picture of her and well…inquiring minds would love to know.” He pats him on the chest, right where his heart is. “I’ve a promise to keep; a heart to burn out. I haven’t introduced myself properly, have I? How rude of me, I’m Sebastian Moran.”

 

In the forefront of his mind, Sherlock remembers Molly, the day of his funeral, standing in her destroyed flat, clenching a piece of paper tightly in her grip.

 

_All heart’s burn, don’t they Molly? Pity you weren’t home. We would have had so much fun, you and I. Until next time, SM._

 

SM. Sebastian Moran.

 

He feels the butt of something hit his skull hard and Sherlock floats into oblivion.

 

(He remembers thinking, before the darkness overtakes him, that if anything happens to Molly, Sherlock will drag himself from whatever depths of hell he’s in to hunt Sebastian Moran down and kill him.)

* * *

When he wakes up, it’s to pandemonium. His mouth is gagged, ropes are tightly tying his wrists and ankles to the chair, his body is cramping from sitting in this position, his head is pounding and he can hear yelling.

 

Through hazy eyes, he sees Garda officers with their guns drawn and he can hear sirens in the distance but all he focuses on is Sebastian Moran’s dead body.

 

“Sherlock?” Brown fills his vision as Molly limps hurriedly to him.

 

He frowns, _she’s limping, why is she limping?_ When she comes closer, her hands clawing at the ropes and desperate pleas for help wrenching from her throat, he notices the bruises around her neck and the blood on her hands and her split lip and her torn jumper and the bruise blossoming on her cheek. 

 

She unties the gag from his mouth as someone cuts the ropes off of him. “Molly.” He croaks, his voice dry from the gag. His chest tightens as he surveys her body and her wounds. His eyes flit back to Moran’s body and he is _furious_ that someone else holds the honor of killing him.

 

“I killed him.” She tells him softly. “He was…he…I killed him.”

 

(He is both immensely surprised and proud.)

 

“Did he…?” He trails off, body tensing, he can’t even get the words out, something seizes his throat and takes away his capability to _think_.

 

She shakes her head. “No. Just tosses me around. He…” she takes a deep breath and brushes away stray curls. “He said he was going to kill you. I couldn’t…not after… _Sherlock_.” She presses her forehead against his and breathes deeply.

 

His arms wrap around her waist and he ignores the feeling of pins and needles in his legs as kneels on the floor. He ignores everyone around them as he sucks in the breaths that she exhales. She places her hands on his chest and he wonders if she can feel the thunderous beating of his heart.

 

“Mycroft called. There’s a tracker in your mobile.” She explains. “I couldn’t wait…I couldn’t lose…” she closes her eyes but not before tears gather behind her eyes and stream down her face, leaving in their wake, wet stains on her face. She takes in a deep breath. “Sherlock, _I love you. I love you. I love you_.”

 

(She repeats those three words as if they’re her absolution, a sort of benediction.)

 

If they’re not hers, they’re most certainly his.

 

(His arms tighten around her waist and he pulls her closer to him and hopes that she understands what he’s trying to say without words. She presses her face to his neck and sobs freely. And because she’s Molly Hooper, she understands without question.)

* * *

As soon as they step off the plane, John punches him in the face. And then yells at him. His face is red, his hands are flailing and then he wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and _weeps_.

 

“You bastard. You bloody stupid fucking bastard.”

 

Lestrade has his arms around Molly, cradling her body gently and looking over her wounds as Mrs. Hudson holds a hand to her mouth and her body shakes with uncontrollable cries as she flings herself towards John and Sherlock.

 

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath and looks over to where Molly is in deep conversation with Lestrade. She turns her head and looks at him, brown eyes wide and a smile gracing her face. Sherlock returns it with a small one of his own.

 

Lestrade looks between them and then he swings his head towards Molly. “No. _Really_?” He sounds gleeful, as if eager to get the full story from Molly.

 

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath and stares up at cloudy London sky.

 

He’s home.

_They’re home._

* * *

Turns out, John is married and doesn’t live in 221b Baker Street anymore.

 

It also turns out that because of her prolonged absence, Molly Hooper currently does not have a flat anymore.

 

It doesn’t even need to be said that she’ll move into 221b Baker Street, as her belongings are already there when they arrive.

 

(Sometimes, he’s grateful that Anthea is so intuitive and cunning, but she’s part Holmes, so really, he shouldn’t be surprised.)

* * *

That night, after Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John leave, he traces the ridges of her spine with the pads of his fingers. He can hear the way her breath hitches and he sees the way her body shudders, as his fingers trail up the expanse of her back, mindful of her bruises. He can see the way she clenches her fists, her fingernails making half-moon marks in the palms of her hands.

 

She sighs and then lets out a sharp gasp that turns into a heated moan as his hand drifts lower and lower, until his fingers make their intent known in the apex of her thighs. She shifts her hips, breaths coming out in rapid gasps as his fingers, trapped between her body and the bed, thrust in and out of her faster.

 

She turns her head to face him and he gets one look at her dilated brown eyes before she closes them and orgasms. She’s struggling to catch her breath, hands unclenching and body heaving up and down.

 

He slides his hand out from underneath her and relishes in her whimpers as she watches him lick his fingers.

 

(Her emotions are still displayed prominently across her face. At first, he found it disconcerting and he loathed how his chest clenched when hurt and disappointment flashed in her eyes but then, he embraced it, because where he hardly shows any emotion and hardly ever indulges in anything remotely sentimental, she _does_. She _lives_ her life by relishing in the small sentimental things.)

 

He admires her for that.

 

He admires her strength to see the good in people, when he’s only ever showed her the bad.

 

(And one day, he may even be able to admit that he loves her.)

* * *

When Sherlock Holmes dies, he doesn’t intend to take Molly Hooper with him.

 

But he does.

 

(Because Molly Hooper is unnamable. She’s indefinable. She’s just… _his Molly Hooper_.)

**Author's Note:**

> I’m back! And with smut to boot! I’ve been hit with writer’s block so churning this story out has been a lot harder than I anticipated, so I’m sincerely hoping I didn’t fudge this one up. I’m so grateful beyond words for you guys because you’re all awesome. Seriously, your support and kind words mean the word to me! So, I hope you all enjoyed this! 
> 
> Again, I love you guys so so so much. You are all so inspiring and awesome. 
> 
> MAD LOVE AND RESPECT!


End file.
